Walk home the wrong way, the long way, on the dark, quiet street, under a perfect night sky. They say it'll rain again tomorrow and the next day. Turn, when suddenly the corner appears. I knew this town so well; the new angles are refreshing. Two tiny girls squatting at the edge of the curb, leaning over the street to brush their teeth under their mother's instruction. Walk slowly, against the pull of the new tight jeans. Too tight I said, but Amy said they looked good. I paid too much, went back later in the afternoon while the others slept. I like feeling cute. Anne Lamott said women shouldn't wear tight pants. Or maybe she just said she never would. Normally I'd listen, but part of the thrill of living is breaking the old rules, even when they're your own.

Buy a soft white loaf of bread for breakfast inside the warmth of the bakery. The other customer is uniformed, young and open-faced - a guard going off duty. He complains about the prices good-naturedly to the tired old woman. She's baggy eyed and unimpressed, a veteran of too many decades of giant baking sheets of breads and cakes. She says, "you want good stuff you gotta pay." She made icing flowers while we watched and then let me come into the tiny windowed cake-decorating room to add, "Happy Birthday Dan" to the tiny cake that night everyone was acting strange, but we kept acting, out of duty and habit and the warmth of old friends even strangers. The elevator shivered a bit on the way up to the 23rd floor, and those who still carried great fear from the May earthquake shivered too. There are tremors every other day or so still, but barely detectable. I had no idea they could last this long - four months now, and up to thirty years they say. In Chengdu Amy and I were in side-by-side showers on the second floor of the hostel when a 6-point something came. We weren't even sure it was an aftershock, but when I came out the conversations downstairs were all a-buzz with it and ZX couldn't bring himself to continue his nap.

The photographer we met at the next hostel commented with surprise about how the aftershocks were still such a center of conversation in Chengdu. And he was here, there, in Mianzhu, within 24 hours of the first one. It was he himself who convinced his boss that he and a writer - the standard team - should go. They were short on clothes, ate instant noodles like everyone else, had no place to sleep, but in the end, a week or so later, it was his boss who called him back to Chongqing; he would've stayed longer.

The night before he had to go to Mianyang to cover the torch relay he sat with us in the hostel courtyard, and we talked of China and the West over beer, and steaming water in my plastic travel cup. I was the one girl, the one westerner, the one faltering in the language, but we were all born in 1981, brothers and sisters of this generation inside China looking around, and out. I cried when I tried to talk from a very personal perspective about in and out-groups, that dark desire to see China fail that is so recklessly projected on every Western action and word, how it does exist, maybe, but it's not so simple, but deep and subconscious, and only a part of a complexity of values and understandings that come into play when we approach each other. Everybody was talking about all the trouble the Olympics were bringing to their daily lives. The highway between Leshan and Chengdu was closed for the whole day before the torch arrived in that small city. A friend who works in scientific research said Olympic-related regulations have made it tough for them to get the supplies they need for their experiements. Anyway, "this Olympics doesn't belong to us, it belongs to Beijing," I heard one person say. Tourism in Sichuan is a fraction of what it would be in a normal year . . . partly because of Tibetan riots, partly because of the earthquake, and partly because of the way it's gotten harder to get a Chinese visa.

The hostel people were complaining about their lack of business, and according toZX, Kangding, which is sort of the gateway to Western Sichuan, was a completely different city from the last two years he was there. We still had our Tibetan yak butter tea and met kind and generous ethnic Tibetans (and one lama who tried to con us out of our money). The sky was still gorgeous clear blue between the steep mountains, and the valleys and rushing streams deep and sharp and breathtaking. But the place had an almost deserted feel. The owner of the hostel where we stayed had left the place in the hands of another tourist - a college student from Inner Mongolia; there were only two other guests besides us. And military police were everywhere. It was obvious that they were extras since they were living in tents, and I was impressed, in a heart-skip-a-beat kinda way, by their large guns, which they shouldered in their little booth-stations. ZX couldn't stop talkign about how they wore bulletproof vests even for regular just-standing-there duty.

All the normal activities, including the big horse race/market/regional gathering in Litang, were cancelled. An Australian traveler told me he'd gone anyway, and so had hundreds of local people, many of whom had started out before news of the cancellation reached them, and traveled days or even weeks. They gathered, and traded anyway, he said, and many were angry. He saw a group of lamas in a central place grow into a huge crowd until they were loaded onto two of those big blue trucks and carried away. Probably taken out somewhere and left to walk back and walk their energy off, we both guessed.

the ordinary

It's been weird reading Justin's blog recently, as he's posting stuff he wrote while he was here. It's weird to go back and read someone else's perspective on things that you witnessed and (especially) that you had conversations about. Still, weird in a not un-nice way. Cause Justin is nice and doesn't write how I talked for hours about myself and had no idea which ATM took international cards. He admires things about my life that I don't always see, just like how I admire things about his that he doesn't necessarily see. That he gets out of bed in the mornings to write, and walks to the library to stack books for food (and rent). I admire the freedom in how he chooses friends and his books, and the cat, and the tea, and the principles as he wants to live them, no danger of his job defining him.

On the Tuesday after Justin left, inspired by the stretching before me of months unmarked by foreseeable visitors or trips, I decided to register myself for the April HSK exam, the Mandarin proficiency test for non-native speakers.

On the way to the registration office I passed a hotel billowing black smoke, people gathered around to watch. The fire engine wasn't getting anywhere fast, so it stopped 500 meters from the intersection and the firefighters got out and jogged to the scene in their ill-fitting yellow uniforms. One had to slow slightly to fix his helmet when it slipped down over his eyes. They were young, and I was filled with a sudden affection for all of them, and for the familiarity of the people gathering on the street corners to watch . . . as they would an argument . . . or anything, really.

On the Nanjing University campus I asked directions for the building whose name I hadn't understood on the phone (after asking her to repeat it four or five times I had gotten embarrassed and given up). The worker I stopped took pity on me and walked me to the nearest corner (opposite of the direction he was going) and carefully explained the turns I'd need to make. In the awkward space of his kindness and the steps to the corner I tried to make conversation. "I hadn't imagined that NanDa was so big!" I exclaimed. He turned to me with a mixture of confusion and sternness, and shortly replied, "Nanda is not big. It's not big at all."

I found the registration office with ten minutes till closing. The man and the young woman behind the temporary office messy desk seemed bored, sharp contrast to my country mouse excitement. I tried to mask it, was glad I had everything ready, the two passport pictures and the money, and didn't have to ask them to help me read the form. It's good to taste once in awhile the expectation that I should actually be able to get along in the language of the land.

Later I went to the bookstore to look for books to help me study. Got mad that after almost four years I'm only ready for the basic level test. I was in the bookstore coffeeshop, looking at the prices of the desserts (thinking to buy time at the coffeeshop tables so I wouldn't have to buy the book) when a manager-ish man approached and asked if I would like to have a free cup of coffee. It was their first day, and they were doing test-runs, collecting comments. I asked him twice if he was serious.

In the end I had two different specials, and a chat with the actual manager, who was younger than me, as peppy as her hair was curled, a newly-gradeeaaated English major, and highly goal-oriented it seemed . . . but also (and why should this be surprising, really?) fairly pleasant to talk to. (It's probably just that she complimented my Chinese a lot. And she was from Gansu, which is closer to Sichuan than to Jiangsu . . . and she gave me free coffee.) She said a big part of their marketing is just educating people about coffee - where it comes from, how it's processed, different kinds, etc. We're different from the Starbucks kind of fast-food coffee, you know? she said. That's what we should be doing with psychology, I thought.

Which brings me to the little work I have been doing lately. Drumroll, please. That's right, "English Island" has been brought out of the garage, revamped, re-oiled and, with Holly at the wheel (less concerned about the actual driving than the re-adjustment of the driver's seat), we're off. Friday's second round went well. That old energy came, and it felt that they went away pleased, if that's the way we're to measure these things. The unfortunate thing is that the level is so low (with a few shining exceptions) that interesting conversation is spare-to-none. I guess I'll have to settle for fun, which it has been.

My uncle asked in an email this morning about my thoughts on Tibet. I've been wanting to write more for awhile, and hope to soon, but my mind's a mess. I've been reading and reading - news, blogs, videos - from foreign journalists, Chinese alternative news, bloggers in China both western and Chinese, some of it good, some of it labeling and/or emotional, some of it only worth laughing at. I've gotten overwhelmed and depressed, and been comforted and relieved, then numb and tired of it all. I've thought I understood then been shocked with a new side of it. And there's the personal emotion all wrapped up in it because this thing of China being criticized (consistently) by the West is me and these are my friends and this my home. Then swirl in the added stuff of the discussions ZX and I have done over and over, almost nightly for awhile, swept away in the anger and defensiveness, the cultural views, then forcing ourselves to step away, to separate . . .

To cope, maybe, I started looking up stuff about Daosim. (Sunday's sabbath was good. To leave the computer at work for a whole day, read and write on the balcony, make food in the kitchen.) Started reading a book by Thomas Merton The Way of Chuang Tzu. I like this from "A Note to the Reader" in which he's explaining his appreciation for the philosopher and the "Dao",

But the whole "way" contained in these anecdotes, poems, and meditations, is characteristic of a certain taste for simplicity, for humility, self-effacement, silence, and in general a refusal to take seriously the aggressivity, the ambition, the push, and the self-importance which one must disply in order to get along in society.

Yes, we have that taste, some of us, don't we. Breathe, sigh, breathe. Look up at the world in a new way all over again. Later in the afternoon I hold FR's hand (like usual) as we walk to the supermarket. I don't think about the places I'd rather be (this is rather unusual) and laugh deep when she says the air "smells warm". I argue, that air can't 'smell warm' even though I agree that the description is true. But FR being FR responds to my half-serious protests with a full-out lesson about how in Chinese this is a valid way of saying it. It's a metaphor, see, similar to how we say she has a 'sweet' smile. We don't actually taste her smile . . .

Will they change the name to "Unity Fries"?

Fifteen years ago, my Chinese teacher tells me, taxis were rare, and the driving of them was a decent job. The government supported them - they were basically for the foreigners - and it was easy to make a girlfriend when you had a car in which she could be driven around all day.

These days taxi drivers work twelve hour shifts and the pay isn't all that good. They get lonely and bored. They'll always talk to you if you're the only one in the cab. I was running late for Chinese class and got to the bus stop just as the 48 bus was pulling away, so I got in the taxi that hesitated there.

The driver guessed I was from England. No? US? That's good, the US is good. France is bad. Why is France bad? They've talked about not participating in the Olympics. If China and France had bad relations we'd understand more, but traditionally we've had a good relationship. Now, when we're hosting . . .

He was so anti-France that I was surprised to find when I looked up the news that France hasn't actually said they're boycotting anything. Sarkozy just said they wouldn't rule out the possibility of boycotting the opening ceremony. I argued when he said Bush was great (something about Taiwan). Lots of Americans are criticizing China too, I ventured.

That's normal, he said. Everybody's got their own opinion, and they can express it. Chinese people understand that. We care about actions. He asked me what I thought. I told him that I know China is a great country; I live here. I said it's hard to know what's going on in Tibet because the reporters can't go in.

Reporters are being kept out for their own safety he told me. All Tibetans carry knives you know, sell them out on the street. They're allowed to. If any of us Han people had a knife, we'd be arrested in an instant. We both wanted to smooth the conversation up a bit, so I flattered Nanjing when he asked, and he told me about a temple we were passing that I should visit. You've helped me understand more how the Chinese people feel, I told him. The Olympics are their chance to 请客 (to host) and Chinese people are 很好客 (so hospitable). The fare was 11Y, but he wouldn't take more than 10.
____________________________________________________________________

Justin left, and it's a let-down after an intense month of having a good friend around. The cool thing was that he left me a bunch of beautiful pictures of our play and of the city. Another cool thing was that it didn't rain on Sunday and we had a near-perfect last day. A sun-filled morning on the balcony of my house, then a picnic at the free park, with naps in the sun-warmed grass and a view of the lake. Lamb kebabs, grilled naan, and cheesecake. The traditional into-the-late-night playing of the CD.

There's not much that makes me happier than grass stuck to my sweater and my hands smell like bark.

sometimes it hurts

When I come back from Sichuan, my colleagues say, "You look good, happy. Sichuan made you prettier. You should go more often."

(These pictures are by Justin Unrau.)
I can't really argue. Fresh canola plants and pea shoots fried Sichuan style are good for the soul. A Saturday morning group bicycle ride - me, Deb, and Michelle on the three-seater - bumping past fields of bright yellow canola flowers. Our spirits were hardly dampened when the people at the soy sauce factory (after a call to their boss) couldn't give us a tour. We played and walked until we exhausted ourselves, then ate like we had earned it. The Muslim restaurant on Saturday night had crispy spring rolls that tasted like tacos. Easter lunch was noodles at another Muslim restaurant.

In the morning there were absolutely no seats inside the tiny brick church. The old ladies tried to force us to take theirs, but I followed stood with William outside and we stood our ground. A man seated on a folding chair in the doorway near us carried the makings of a lunch in a sturdy plastic shopping bag that read, in English, "Graceful."

The 33-hour train ride, apart from my minor depression (sparked by the news that I would be three hours from ZX and not seeing him) was more or less unremarkable. We didn't really talk to anyone, though the hallway seats were lined all day and into the night with chatter.
The girl who slept above me, a migrant worker I put at about 22, was strangely both polite and obnoxious. Once when she wanted to walk between our bunks to grab her cellphone from the second bunk, she asked our permission. I was so confused I didn't answer.

She bought food from the train attendants, and once, a noisy hand-held video game in plastic to play an hour or two. She talked non-stop, mostly about her boyfriend and how beautiful he said she was. She wore bright pink high heeled shoes that looked like they were made of plastic. At night when they rested under my bunk next to the aisle it was easy to find my way back from the bathroom. In the morning of the second day she applied full make-up, mostly in pinks and blues. I assumed she would get off soon, but apparently it was just for the short sloppy guy in the compartment next to ours. They joked and flirted by flinging insults the whole day and into the evening after the man had changed into his long underwear and was holding court on (from what little I could understand of his dialect) all affairs economic and political. I kept hearing "Taiwan" and "US" popping up in heated discussion. I didn't find out until the next day that elections (though it was called "leadership selection" or something by Beijing) in Taiwan had been held and the non-pro-independence party won, much to all of China's delight.

A prisoner with an empty eye socket was handcuffed to the lower bunk two compartments down for the length of the ride. Every few hours he'd be released to shuffled down the hall to the bathroom, shackles dragging along, his guard trailing behind him. Once when they passed I took the opportunity to go fill my water bottle when I wouldn't have to go by them. It made me uncomfortable to pass the staring red eye cavity.

Tibet. Still makes me want to cry. It's clear that the protest/riots have spread and involved a lot of people and places, and it's clear that there's been a lot of violence against the Han people and property. Apart from that, not much is clear, and for me that's frustrating, and scary. China has basically closed down everything west of Chengdu, and shipped in LOTS of troops. They claim that there are far more Han people being hurt than Tibetans, and that six hundred protesters have "turned themselves in" but how is anyone to know?

We rode the bus through the Tibetan area of Chengdu, and there were, literally, police cars on every corner. I asked two taxi drivers what they thought (taxi drivers are usually pretty honest and willing to talk) what they thought of the situation, and both of them just spewed prejudice against Tibetan people. When the meter reads 15 Y, they want to give 10 Y, one said. I can only take four people, and they demand that I take five. "Sounds pretty normal to me," I said. "I'm guilty of the same thing," and he laughed with me.

"We help them so much," I keep hearing over and over, "they get even more privileges than the other minorities." You don't get in a fight with a Tibetan, because they get more leniency than everybody else. That and how it's all under control.

ZX and I discuss Tibet almost nightly. Both of us bring hard core concern for justice . . . and the gigantic assumptions of our cultures. I want no government "protecting me." I argue that its our responsibility as world citizens to care about what's happening to other world citizens. For him avoiding chaos trumps a lot of things, and the hypocrisy of the Western governments and media is as bad as that of China. A lot of people here are pissed about the Western media's biased reporting, and I would agree that a lot of it is biased. I've been impressed with what The Guardian's been doing, and that's what I read. I don't go near something like CNN, and will not defend it.

who's not smiling?

Since foreign journalists are not allowed into Tibet, ambassadors can't get into courtrooms, and finding news about anything in Chinese takes a whole lot of effort and maybe some special knowledge, it's depressing to think about how long it might take all of us to find out what's really happening.

But don't worry. CCTV will keep us up to date. Two quotes from prime minister Wen Jia Bao from within the last day are classic examples of how Beijing believes that reality is actually determined by the picture it paints.

Regarding the riots in which thousands of Tibetans are revealing deep anger towards China through some pretty big numbers and, sadly, violence:

Wen insisted the conflict would not disrupt the games: "I have confidence the smiles of 1.3 billion Chinese people ... will be reciprocated by the smiles of people from all over the world," he said.

Regarding the arrest, political charges, and trial of an environmental/AIDS activist . . .

"China is a country ruled by law, and all these issues will be dealt with in accordance with law," he said. "As far as the critics' view that China is trying to arrest dissidents before the Olympics, there is no such issue at all."

The sad thing - especially on the Tibet issue - is that my friends mostly believe what they're told - that a small group of "splitists" led by the Dalai Lama is responsible for all of the protests and riots . . . while your average Tibetan is overwhelmingly grateful for the TVs and and the train.

as hazy as hate

Oh no. Now I'm reading this unsubstantiated but easy to believe its true "eyewitness account" from somebody in Lhasa who says the streets really gotten violent - Tibetans using stones, knives, and even guns to attack Han Chinese. That sounds scary. I guess I'm now praying with the US official statements that both sides will exercise constraint . . .

scarlet robes on a shanghai-bound train

What can I say except Justin (and Cheryl, Hee-Jin, and Naomi this weekend) have kept me busy? I'm gonna try playing catch-up a bit. Hold off on writing about yesterday's fun and try to drag up early-March memories.

I liked Shanghai more than I thought I would. On Sunday afternoon, upon arrival, I wondered completely lost around the huge many-squared train station, enjoyed a donut!!! and coffee with The History of Love, wondered what the helpful traffic police meant when they used the word "daba" for bus, and eventually (sort of accidently) ended up riding the Maglev (magnetic levitation)train to the airport just in time to meet him. The train, which except for a small group of Japanese tourists was mostly deserted, took eight minutes to get to the airport. Yep, it was pretty fast. And I promise, Dad, that next time you come to China, we will ride on this thing.

pic from: www.monorails.org/tmspages/MagShang.html

I have these phrases scribbled in my yellow notebook, with stars and exclamation points:

Justin is coming!
I'm in Shanghai!
I'm eating a donut!
I'm going 431 km/hr!
The Yao Ming on that giant Visa card ad is wearing lipstick!

Earlier in the Nanjing train station I had written:

The class isn't as exclusively high for this fast train as I imagined it might be. The ubitiquous plaid-striped bags, and one of those huge shapeless fake-jean backpacks that Jesse Bauman bought in Nanchong.

I don't know why people get up and pile up in the lines. We'll all get there eventually, won't we?

Across from me two Tibetan monks in full scarlet robes. One wears zip-up boots that look really warm. Too warm maybe. He has a deep cough. A long-haired companion too, not in robes. I wonder who they will meet in Shanghai. Or are they headed international?

And now I'm drug back to this morning, when I was so sobered by more news about protests in Tibet and in other parts of Western China. Protesters being arrested and killed. Looting, burning, and rock-throwing, while not helpful I agree, are not nearly as scary to me as the stories offered as explanations, and the way that even cynical friends here believe that yes, China is one, and anyone who dares to say otherwise is just asking for (read:deserves) trouble.

(And yes, I appreciate the irony of, in one post, loving on the Maglev and hating on the policies that build face like that.)

Borrowed these pictures are from a good blog by a guy who lives in Xinjiang.